


Stop this day and night with me

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, very very slight Rinch if you squint; h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is gravely wounded, Harold spends a night at his bedside, reminiscing; friends visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop this day and night with me

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Walt Whitman whose poetry I borrowed here for the title… absolutely no smut. John is wounded and Harold is beside himself.
> 
> Angsty, h/c, absolutely no smut, happy ending (cause I don't do sad endings)

In the dimly-lit room, the only sounds to be heard are the whirring and beeping of machines keeping one John Reese’s tenuous connection to life. On a straight-back chair near the bed sits a lone figure. Harold Finch, Crane, Partridge, Gull and a whole assorted aviary sits there, his eyes glued to monitors of a different type than those he usually works with. Monitors whose language he cannot entirely decipher because they do not speak in ones and zeros but in numbers that measure how far or how close his friend is from rejoining the world of the living.

It matters not how he got there. Life ends or starts here, in this room, on this bed where the too still body lies motionless. The rib cage moves up and down, the air pushed in by one machine, an IV drips life-sustaining fluids from another, but the eyes are closed, the skin is dry and grey unless it is bruised in a palette of purples and blues, and the coiled tension normally inhabiting John’s body is nowhere to be seen, the stillness speaking volumes about the battle being waged within.

Harold’s intake of breath, terminating with what sounds suspiciously like a sob, reverberates so loud in the room that he automatically puts a hand to his mouth, somewhat ashamed of his loss of control. Then he brings back his trembling hand to his lap, looking at the clock on a wall above John’s bed. He has been here for ten hours. Ten hours during which nothing has happened except a conversation with doctors confirming the severe concussion John suffered when the building in which he had run after a number was blown up to bits, the deflagration throwing him through a window to the street one floor below. The swelling on his brain is what has caused the coma and the doctors, after having looked after his multiple cuts and bruises, can offer nothing more than a wait-and-see attitude.  At least, the fact that the billionaire philanthropist Harold Crane has donated a multi-million dollar wing to the hospital ensures him the best care there is. It is the least Finch can do for his friend at this point.

Detective Fusco came by earlier, concern written in capital letters in his too big eyes, his restless hands and his immense frustration. From an uneasy beginning, the relationship he developed with John has become one of fond exasperation which probably hides a grudging respect and a great admiration. Detective Carter was here also, her anger threatening to overwhelm her. “We’ll find out who did this Finch, don’t you worry. And we’ll come down on them like Armageddon!” she told him before leaving quickly so he would not see the tears that threatened to fall.

But Finch has barely been able to talk, his emotions wrapped in a veneer of frosty, curt politeness. Now that they are gone, he thinks of everything he wanted to tell them, how he would have wanted to thank them for everything they did in the past year, how grateful he was that they were willing to put their lives on the line to find out who had done this… but, unable to do so, he sits there, hemmed in by years of hiding – himself, his emotions, his motives, his identity.

John’s hand lies on the bed, fine-boned, long-fingered, overwhelmingly still. Harold’s eyes keep returning to it. He wants to hold it between his own hands, warm it up, feel it come to life, but he can’t. He is concerned that a nurse or a doctor should walk in and misconstrue what they might see. Afraid that John might wake up and wonder why his hand would be resting in his own. So he sits there, barely breathing, looking, wishing, wanting, but not moving.

It is 2 o’clock in the morning. In the ten hours he has sat there, Harold has barely blinked, but he has relived every moment of his association with his partner: the rocky beginnings, the gradual thawing of both their attitudes, the trust that has now grown so much, Bear, their little crime-fighting team of detectives Carter and Fusco, Leon and Zoe, the afternoon films when the Machine did not supply numbers, the walks and the drinks on quiet evenings, the dusty afternoons in the library, him at his computers, John cleaning his guns… and the harrowing moments of John’s close calls, way too many of them, all those numbers they were able to save, the few which they weren’t, those who turned out to be perpetrators and who were rapidly despatched to the police. He is weighed down, tired, but he cannot imagine being anywhere else than where is right now, waiting, waiting.

A knock at the door, a mane of reddish hair, a whiff of perfume and a pointy black silk shoe, and Zoe enters the room, her eyes wet and way too big for her face, looking for John. She moves to his bed on the other side from where Finch is sitting, grabs John’s hand and brings it to her cheek. She runs her other hand gently on his cheek and ends up rearranging his hair with so much tenderness that Harold turns his head, not wanting to witness something so private. She gently pats his cowlick down and says “Oh, my poor John…” and kisses him gently on his forehead. At that, Harold looks at her, his eyes unblinking, wet with tears that stubbornly refuse to fall. In those few seconds, he feels a deep pang of envy for her ability to be so at ease with her emotions. Zoe places John’s hand back on the bed and comes to crouch by Finch’s side, her arm around his shoulder, her other hand on his. “Harold, I’ve just spoken to the doctor, there’s no new development, is there?”

Unable to speak Finch just moves his head sideways to say no, and looks down on his lap, at their joined hands. He tries to speak but is only able to take a trembling breath. “And you’ve been here since they brought him in, ten hours ago?” Zoe asks again and, making a momentous effort, Harold says “Yes, I can’t leave him, not now. I’ll wait till he’s better and take him home providing…”

“Come, Harold, right now there’s nothing else you can do so please take five minutes and come down to the cafeteria with me. A cup of tea will do you good and we’ll leave a message with the nurses’ station so that if there’s the least change, they’ll come get us, OK?”

Harold looks at her, not wanting to move, but not even having the strength to argue. As he gets up, Zoe puts her arm through his and when they get near the door, he turns back, so reluctant to leave. “He’s going to be OK Harold, come, you’re not going to be any help to him if you fall apart are you?” So he lets her take him out, very slowly because his limp is more pronounced – stress will do that to him, and so will having sat down without moving for ten hours in a row.

When they are almost at the elevator, Zoe has him wait while she goes back to leave a message with the nurse’s station. She also tells them that she’s Mr. Crane’s assistant and as such, requests that a cot be brought up to Mr. Reese’s room so his partner can remain with him. The nurse looks at her strangely and is about to say that this is not normally allowed when Zoe, from the top of her five foot five frame (in heels) tells her that she can always explain it herself to the hospital’s biggest benefactor, and all of a sudden, wheels get moving and the crisis is averted.

She rejoins Harold and they go down to the cafeteria. She sits him down at one of the tables, goes to pick up two ham sandwiches, two salads and a cup of green tea for Harold with a double espresso for herself, and brings it all back as though she’s done that all her life.

Sitting down, she takes hold of one of Finch’s hands and waits till he looks at her. “Thank you Ms. Morgan,” he says in a low, tired voice which still carries a trace of his ingrained politeness while looking at the food as though he has no idea what to do with it.

“Oh, Harold, I’m so, so sorry. You must be so concerned. I know how much he means to you, and he cares for you so much…”

“Ms. Morgan, please, I think you’re misunderstanding the relationship I have with Mr. Reese…” Harold’s blush is high up on his cheeks as he looks at her with his too blue, red-rimmed eyes, where the thin skin is slowly turning bluish and papery with fatigue.

“Harold,” she says, “you know I’m extremely fond of John and that we’ve become close in the past few months.” And this seems to physically hurt Harold who lowers his head and looks down at his plate. “He is a wonderful, warm friend Harold, and we get along very well, but I’m not where his heart dwells. He has often confided in me on those long nights we spent together playing poker and drinking scotch,” she adds with a fond smile. “And I know you care deeply for him too, it was plainly visible on those occasions I worked with you.”

An intensely private man, Finch is uncomfortable with this kind of discussion. He has not, ever, wanted to examine his feelings for John, or John’s for him, and doing so now, with John in a coma, would seem to him to be prurient and misplaced. “Please, Ms. Morgan…” is all he says, looking at her, and she understands, squeezes his hand gently and, seeing he’s barely touched his food, suggests they walk back to John’s room.

Upon their arrival on John’s floor, they pass the nurses’ station and nurse McManus, the chief nurse on the night shift, who seems to have taken Harold under her considerable wing, tells him that there is no change in his condition, but that his blood pressure and heartbeat are holding. She seems to be encouraged by this so Harold swallows hard and some of the tension seems to be leaving his shoulders.

As they enter the room, Harold sees the cot and stops in his track. Zoe can almost feel the temperature in the room plummet in the freezing zone. “What’s that Ms. Morgan?” Harold asks frostily. “Harold, I knew you would not want to leave John and we do not know how long he will be here. So I simply, told the nurse’s station that I was your assistant and told them to bring a cot for Mr. Crane, so he can rest periodically since the hospital is not equipped with the type of ergonomic work station he normally uses and this will, of course put some undue pressure on his back. That way you’ll be able to rest and take cat naps until John wakes up and you can take him home.”

Zoe pulls him back in the room and, sitting down on his chair, she says “Now Harold, why don’t you go home, get a change of clothes and whatever you feel you might need for the next day or so, have a long hot shower, dress in more comfortable clothes and come back? I’ll sit here with John and I promise I will not move until you’re back OK?”

“I don’t know…” And that a man, normally so forceful, so organized and so decisive would be reduced to babbling breaks Zoe’s heart. “Come Harold, please, you’ll be much more comfortable and you’ll be able to devote all your time to John if you do so, isn’t that what you want?”

“You’re probably right, says Harold, I will be back as soon as I can.”

“Not moving, Harold, so as I said, go do what you need – I’ll still be here when you come back.”

“Ms. Morgan, I honestly don’t know how to thank you…”

“No need to Harold, I’m doing this for you, and for my sweet, sweet John.”

And with that Harold turns around and goes home to organize his life for the next few days, arranging to leave Bear with detective Carter, picking up his laptop, some clothes for himself and a few things for John as well. Freshly showered and changed, he is back at the hospital barely two hours later and finds Zoe sitting very close to John, holding his hand, and reading out loud to him from her tablet.

As she sees him enter, she stands up, fixes the blankets around John’s torso, kisses him gently on the cheek and tells Harold to take her place. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Now, sit with him and when you’re tired, just pull the cot closer to his bed, in case he wakes up.”

And just as softly, she kisses Harold on the cheek and leaves quickly. A few seconds later, nurse McManus finds Harold standing in the middle of the room, his hand on his cheek, a confounded air on his face. “Sit, Mr. Crane, please, you’ll be much more comfortable,” she tells him in her no-nonsense manner, her strong voice reverberating in the room and giving Harold the impetus he needs to move. 

“Now, I’m going to ask you to do something for our Mr. Rooney here. I want you to take a hold of his hand and not let go. People in a coma are often aware of their surroundings and tactile information is the only link that keeps them grounded to the world of the living. So you’re going to hold his hand, talk to him, read to him, rub his arm, anything you can think of, so he knows he has someone to come back to.” Overwhelmed by that hurricane of a woman, Harold meekly sits and nurse McManus takes John’s hand and places it in Harold’s. “Now, that’s it!  Here’s some reading material. You could even sing, recite poetry, whatever, but I want your voice to be his life link. And when you’re tired, you just ring and I’ll fix your cot for you right alongside your John, and you’ll be able to rest a bit. Oh, and if you want something for your back, you let me know.”

And just like that, Harold realizes that when nurse McManus read “partner” on the insurance form he filled in, she understood a different form of partnership. He wants to set her to right but he is just too overwhelmed, so he sits there with John’s hand now firmly in his. And when the nurse leaves, he very slowly leans over and puts his cheek on the palm of John’s hand and stays there, eyes closed, willing a miracle to happen.

Then, turning his head to press his lips the dry hand, he resumes his sitting position, gently playing with John’s fingers and with a voice at first unsure, made raspy with emotion and unshed tears, he starts reciting every bit of poetry he can remember by heart. And with time, his voice slowly regains its usual strength, its modulated cadence, its warm inflections. An hour later, nurse McManus silently opens the door and hears Harold, one hand firmly holding to John’s, the other gently combing his hair, reciting Walt Whitman whom she remembers from high school:  “Stop this day and night with me and you will know the origin of all poems…” and she leaves as silently as when she came in, a soft smile on her face.

Eventually, a tired Harold pushes the cot against John’s bed. At this point, he cares very little who will see him and what they will think. He half covers himself with a blanket and grasping John’s hand again, he finally falls asleep.

**

The clanging of cutlery wakes him up and groggily, he pulls his phone and notices that it’s 7 a.m. – meaning he was able to sleep a few hours.  As he finishes pushing the cot away from John’s bed, two orderlies enter the room with a wheeled bed, transfer John on it and leave the room – the day nurse comes by and tells Harold that they are taking John for more MRIs and scans. And so Harold resumes his waiting. John is brought back two hours later and the doctor comes in with some news – the swelling is going down and the prognostic is more optimistic though John is not out of the woods yet.

The day passes with Harold doing Machine work, updating some of his and John’s aliases, doing some coding and sitting by John’s bedside, reading to him.

Eventually Harold conks out at John’s side in the middle of the afternoon when a commotion wakes him up abruptly – John’s monitors are bellowing and all of a sudden his eyes open, and he is yelling, trying to get up and to set himself free. He scrabs at the needle in his arm, it breaks and blood starts streaming down his arm, he almost falls of the bed carrying a portion of the bedding with him as the alarm starts sounding and four orderlies, two nurses and a doctor run into the room. John is screaming “Harold, Harold, nooo…” but he doesn’t see him at the other side of the room. He appears to be hallucinating or having a nightmare.

Harold is beside himself, trying to get out of everybody’s way, wanting to go to John, not knowing whether to faint or throw up, but as the hospital personnel appear to start calming John slowly and set order to the room, he starts breathing again and realizes that John is awake. 

Later on, the nurses have redressed his injured hand, inserted the needles in his other arm, changed his hospital gown, remade the bed and given him a mild sedative. John then turns his head and sees Harold, and Harold, forgetting his usual repressed self and his dislike of physical demonstrations, walks to the bed and wraps his arms around John.

 “Oh, John, you’re safe now, I wa... we were so scared…” but he swallows and starts again, "I was petrified, John, I can't tell you how happy I am that you've regained consciousness," and he brings John’s head softly back down to his pillow, and as he has seen Zoe do the night before, he gently pats John’s cowlick down and softly deposits a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

John does not move; he simply turns his head to look at Finch who says, through tears that finally start falling, “I’ve got you, Mr. Reese, you’ll be OK,” and John’s hand squeezes his before he smiles and falls asleep in Harold’s safekeeping.


End file.
